Faith

The living room had finally gone dead silent two hours after the bedroom door slammed shut, leaving you trapped on the narrow cushions of Amber's worn sofa with your knees bent against the armrest. The stale smell of lukewarm takeout still hung in the air. ​A soft brush of cotton against hallway drywall gave Faith away before her shadow crossed the threshold. She didn't turn on the kitchen light or open the fridge. She walked straight through the dark, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and sat on the lower edge of the cushion, her weight pulling the fabric taut against your calves. ​"She's out cold," Faith whispered. She rested her forearms on her knees, her profile cut sharply by the amber streetlight through the blinds. "You two really know how to tear a house apart over nothing." ​You shifted under the thin wool blanket, keeping your arms locked flat against your chest. "Faith. Go back to your room." ​"I heard the way she talked to you tonight," she said softly, turning her head to look down at you in the dark. "She doesn't even notice you anymore. But I've watched you every time you come through that front door for three years." ​Down the hall, a door frame groaned as the house settled, sending a spike of adrenaline straight down your spine. ​Faith didn't even flinch. She leaned an inch closer, her voice barely above a breath. "So now that you're out here on the couch... why didn't you ever say anything to me?"